


You Are Not Enough

by anarchist



Category: DMMd, DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sad, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6198028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchist/pseuds/anarchist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The robotic life and human death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Not Enough

Are you really human?

In all of this - this earth and sky and sea and mess, this complete mess of a world - is that really you, flesh and blood, there, in that photo? Are you really human? No? Sorry? You don’t know? What’s that? You believe you’re human?

Belief isn’t enough, Clear.

You aren’t human.

Clear looks down at his life before him. Lying there, eyes closed and face pale. Hair tidy and combed into two long tails down either side of his chest. It was once that glowing blue, so unnatural but so… engrossing. But now it is white. Long and clean and white. And there is his jacket, the jacket he wore until he could wear it no more and Clear stitched it up for him.

And that voice. 

He imagines that voice. Reaches for it with every part of his being. He doesn’t want to forget the voice that barrels into his mind, flutters around and shatters him every time it passes through the air between them. The voice is perfect and loud and quiet and passionate and, most importantly, that voice reminds him that he is as human as he needs to be. 

That’s right. He’s as human as he needs to be.

Except that he isn’t.

He closes his eyes. He remembers the fear when he removed his mask so many years ago. He remembers the touch, the electricity between fingers and cheek as he asked, “My face? Is it all there?” And he remembers where it went from there. The love. The excitement. The pain. 

Himself, destroyed.

And then he remembers it: the restructuring. The restructuring, so that he could appear on the roof, umbrella in hand, humming a familiar tune until his friend found him again and leapt into his arms.

The restructuring was agony. Every moment away was agony. Every moment his body was pieced back together was a moment he could not be there to tell his friend that he was alright. But it was agony that he would readily go through again and again, if only what was here in front of him now would speak again.

Someone behind him coughs. Someone else stifles a sob. Those annoying “not twins!”, now hunched and greying themselves, sidle by with just a glance at the casket and a frown. He pushes them out of his mind and places his hands on the sides of the casket, adoring his Aoba.

The photo above the casket was of the both of them, taken on their wedding day. Aoba was blue-haired back then, and it was tied in a loose bun at the top of his head. They wore matching grey suits, and Clear’s head was adorned with flowers, picked fresh and tied together into a crown that morning. They were facing the camera but their eyes trailed elsewhere, a sidewise glance to each other and a grin on both of their faces.

Clear remembers. It was Tae who had taken the photo, and Noiz had been behind her looking grumpy and dissatisfied to be wearing a suit. Koujaku had walked past at that moment and given Noiz a smack on the head, and that’s when Aoba and Clear glanced at each other, beginning to laugh, and that’s when the camera went off, and that’s the photo that captured that day best. And that’s the photo that captured his humanity best.

Aoba spent years breaking into Clear, building him into the human and destroying the machine whenever it appeared; and it appeared more often, lately, as Aoba aged but Clear remained the same. In public, people stared. And Clear’s heart, warm as anyone else’s, grew cold and he would break down. And Aoba would be there to infiltrate him, remind him of his worth, drag him out of his depression and throw him back into the human world.

And now, here he is. Standing over the casket of his beautiful, aged husband. His hunched and wrinkled and white-haired friends surround him. He may perhaps pass as one of them from behind, but when he turns his youthful face will expose him for what he is.

He spent years ignoring it. He spent years staring in the mirror, Aoba behind him and reminding him, “You are human. You are human. You are human.”

But everything about this day proves Aoba wrong.

The photo: young Aoba, now aged and diseased; young Clear, the exact same.

Clear is not human.

You are not human. Belief is not enough.

His life now buried, Clear turned from the human world that night. And now he takes his time travelling the deep sea, all the while humming a familiar tune.


End file.
